


Decay, decay, decay

by Jamesneatojourney



Category: Professional Wrestling, Total Nonstop Action Wrestling
Genre: Emetophobia, ill do more with the other folk in decay but i needed to get this one out, ok so theyre a lil otherworldly and spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 05:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11616570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamesneatojourney/pseuds/Jamesneatojourney
Summary: The Decay manifest in their own ways to make peoples lives hell for fun.





	Decay, decay, decay

She is the fearful wave of acrid nausea after being told the mailman hit the family pet. The cold pit in your gut and sudden burning in your eyes as in an instant, something you love is torn from your aching hands.

And she always arrives humming.

Her silhouette, though small, is so demanding in presence that she may as well be a writhing, feral beast. She’s wiry, bendy even, yet her skin is pulled tight against the contours of lean muscle. However when she moves, the stiffness of her steps are deliberate, making all her contortions even more off-putting.

She’s pale, but unnaturally so, as though she had been smeared with layer upon layer of thick theater makeup and let it crack and smear over time. Either mixed in, between, or maybe even underneath, there are streaks and spots of a deep grime that covers her. Reds, greenish gray, black around the eyes and in the mouth. Like an old doll, pulled dripping from a bog and let to dry in the sun.

She smiles at me warmly while lifting a dingy hand to run it through her greasy matted hair. Its short, messily cut and rarely kept. It looked like it was a dark red once upon a time, but now it was a clumped mess with a streak or two of red trying to shine through deep brownish black grime. Her lips are cracked, yet still shine bright with a viscous green sheen. When she laughs, oh how she laughs, the air smells acidic, like bile and the cold smell of pennies. Even when she hums in the dead of night, as you lie awake in feverish agony, the smell is there.

She is cold to the touch, although you may just be numb. Her touch feels distant enough that this could very well be the case. Her blunt nails scrape across your cold sensitive skin and you can feel it, leaving waves of goosebumps behind. Her breath hits cold on the side of your face, the smell of sick, rich and overbearing. She eventually stops laughing and reaches her stained, filthy hands to your face, your chin, grabbing hold of it while the other arm drapes itself limply over your opposite shoulder. She could very well be on her toes, but you feel smaller than you thought possible, trapped in her frigid embrace. 

Her hands are cold and rough, scrubbing mercilessly across your cheek and wandering into your hair, tugging lovingly. Her fingers leave a trail of tacky grime behind that will stay until your third shower. Not necessarily dirt itself will remain, but the lingering chill of her small, cold hands.

She’s been talking to you. Whispering...or giggling maybe, into your ear. It's a familiar tone, sounding almost lovingly. You haven’t caught a word, and didn’t even realize she had been talking until she stopped. Didn’t realize the hand that had traveled from your shoulder to brace the back of your neck until it was gone.

“We’ll be in touch.” was all you could catch, as she moved to stare at you with her sickly yellow eyes, black pupils a harsh contrast. 

Then she was gone. You never did see her again, but every time she was there without fail.

Every time you got sick, you’d feel her. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that every time you felt her, you would get sick. 

Clutching at a garbage can or toilet bowl 3 days into a delirious fever you’d feel her cold hand caress your neck. The hairs would stand on end as you wretched, hands cold and growing numb as freezing nausea pours over you in waves. The acidic smell of her was rich as she hummed into your ear, raking her other cold hand across your scalp. When you were shivering violently in your own bed, body aching and screaming for peace, she’d ghost her hands up and down your arms, the tremors following obediently behind them.

You hated what her presence meant for you, this bodily sickness. Her loving embrace and clinging persistence. Her grip she would hold on you for days at a time before she’d get bored and slip from the room, leaving you at peace. But never without her reminder,

“We’ll be in touch”


End file.
